


Cleaning

by Esti7310



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining, Some angst, au where nothing weird happens in their last year and they finish it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6818719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esti7310/pseuds/Esti7310
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz has a nostalgia adventure while he's cleaning out his closet on his last night at Watford, and Simon interrupts his perfectly good self-pity session. Baz has one last problem to fix up before he leaves for good. </p>
<p>Fluff, angst, pining. Cut me some slack, I wrote this at midnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaning

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! So on Friday I read Carry On all the way through and it emotionally destroyed me, and tonight I skipped my math homework to bring you some pining and ridiculously cheesy fluff. I have, like, actual things I should be writing, but this was fun. 
> 
> Hope you like it!

Baz hated cleaning his closet. He had a tendency to just shove anything he didn’t want to think about in there. The rest of his dormitory was spotless – except where Snow had been, of course, he couldn’t clean anything to save his life. He was probably used to having people straighten up whatever he screwed with. 

But no matter how much he hated it, he had to go through his mess now and sort what he would trash and what would be coming home with him tomorrow. Baz had been digging through the junk for nearly an hour now, pulling out congealed potions and half-full soda bottles and robes that hadn’t fit him in years. He cringed at every unidentifiable substance his fingers brushed, hoping that whatever it was he was about to pull out hadn’t ever been alive (he only hit a live insect once, which he figured was pretty lucky considering all that he shoved in here). At the very least, cleaning distracted him from the fact that he would be leaving Watford in less than twenty-four hours.

He could finally see the bottom layer of grime and old belongings – books from his first year, his first Watford yearbook, assorted pens, and a very deflated football. The football went straight to the trash, and he balanced the notebooks on top of the large pile on his desk to go through later. Curiosity got the better of him, and he sat down cross-legged to flip through the old yearbook. 

The beginning pages were pictures from classes – he spotted himself glaring at Snow from across a desk a few times. There were some of the football team, a few scattered club photos, parents at the leaving ceremony at the end of the year. These years looked so much simpler, with no terrible crushes or sexuality crises or wondering if his mother would have hated what he’d become, if everyone he knew hated him. 

The last page was full of signatures – most had smudged, but the clearest one in bright blue ink caught Baz’s eye. 

_ Baz. The crucible sure isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it? I’ll try not to go off on you if you don’t drink my blood in the middle of the night. I suppose I’ll unfortunately be seeing you next year.  _

_ -Simon Snow _

“Some things never change,” Baz murmured to himself, letting his hand skate across the signature.

_ Simon Snow.  _

The name had caused so much annoyance, so much confusion, and, particularly in the last couple of years, more than a little heartache. Simon’s feelings had definitely stayed somewhere between loathing and hatred, and Baz could only wish his had done the same. 

Hate was easier than love. Hate was clear. It didn’t matter what someone you hated thought, it didn’t matter what you said or did to them. At least if Baz had truly hated Snow, he could complain to his friends about him, be outright cruel to him without second guessing every move as he lay awake in bed late at night. 

The worst that someone you hated could do was make you hate them more. The worst that someone you weren’t supposed to love could do was make you love them more.

And so, Baz concluded, Snow did the worst possible thing every damn time he walked in the room.

Baz set aside the yearbook and picked up one of the journals on his desk – fourth year, he thought. Diagrams of chimeras and notes on dragons filled the pages, so he guessed this was an old magical biology notebook. Baz could remember this class – Snow had, unfortunately, been his lab partner, which had made it hard to concentrate.

Baz turned the page and grimaced at something written in the margins – he had had a tendency to use his class notebooks as diaries before he caved and actually got a book just for his own rants and writings. A sketch of a snowflake headed a block of scrawled words. 

_ Simon fucking Snow. Not here today. Probably ditching class to snog his perfect girlfriend or steal sour cherry scones from the kitchen. At least I can fucking focus now.  _

Baz snorted at the stupidity of his earliest stages of pining. The annoyed words filled the whole page, ending embarrassingly with, ‘ _ Snow, you may be the biggest ass to ever grace Watford, and you may leave your side of the room a mess, but I wish I hated you more than I do. I don’t. Maybe I hate myself for even wishing this was possible, that you could ever care about me. Even I know I’m awful. But I don’t hate you, at least not more than I want you.’  _

Baz cringed at his younger self and threw the notebook back on top of the pile. He might still think those things, but at least now he had the sense to not write them down, and definitely not in his school notebooks. All these memories flooding back were making him too sentimental.

It looked like the issue of Simon Snow would be left without being settled, the only mess Baz would ignore in his careful cleanup before he left Watford. It wasn’t as if it was a mystery, though – Snow had always hated Baz, treated him like the enemy he was supposed to be, and Baz would have to move on.

He tossed the last few dried pens into the trash and lifted out the last thing in the closet – an unfamiliar photo album. He flipped open the cover and his heart tightened in his chest.

His mother. 

Baz remembered this album now, vaguely. Some of the pictures were familiar, copies of ones that were framed at home – his mother holding him, his whole family together. She beamed up at him from every page. She seemed to hold stars in her eyes. She really was beautiful – dark skin and sweeping waist-length hair. Her faded handwriting captioned the earliest pictures.

Baz carefully took one out of the album that he'd never seen – his mother holding up a tiny version of him in her lap, both of them laughing. Baz hadn’t seen an expression that happy on his face in years. He flipped the photo over and read his mother’s writing –  _ Christmas 1999. My beautiful boy. _

_ Would she still think that? _ Thought Baz.  _ I’m too different now, nothing like what she'd expect. A fucking vampire. _

But her smile seemed so genuine, her eyes so caring. She looked like the type of mother who would laugh and be fierce and take too many pictures on his first day of school, but mean well. If nothing else, at least she would be  _ someone. _

This was too much, the last straw Baz could take in this closet-cleaning-induced trip down a road of nostalgia. He bit his lip and felt his throat close, tears threatening to spill out. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes tight, wishing he could just disappear for a while. 

Of course, Snow had to pick  _ now  _ to bang open the door. 

“Baz, where the  _ fuck  _ have you been all day? Creeping around?” Simon headed to his bed and kicked off his shoes.

“Cleaning, Snow, ever heard of it?” Baz snapped without turning. He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that they were too choked, too tense. 

Snow stopped his moving, and Baz felt eyes on him. After a split second, he heard soft footsteps heading his way, and Baz frantically tossed the album back into the closet. 

“What’s that?” asked Snow in a softer voice, leaning cautiously over Baz’s shoulder to study the picture still clasped in his hand. Baz was extremely aware of Snow leaning over him – the space where he was felt electric, and Baz wasn't sure it had anything to do with magic.

“It’s called a photo, Snow.”

“You don’t say,” he deadpanned, though Baz thought he might see a flash of pity or – maybe, possibly – caring. After all, Snow knew what it was like to not have parents around, and he probably didn’t even have pictures or handwriting. 

“Your mother?”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met for a moment, and Baz was convinced he felt a small understanding pass between them. This was common ground, for once. 

“She looks a bit like you,” said Snow. “She’s beautiful.” He reached out to take the photo.

“Mine, Snow,” Baz snapped, placing it gently on the desk.

Snow’s eyes lingered on the picture for a second before roaming to the side. “What about this?”

Before Baz could stop him, Snow was snatching up the old notebook, his eyes flying over the text in the margin. 

“Mind your own business, Snow,” said Baz, grasping for the notebook in a panic. Snow whirled around and paced to the window, shielding the book from Baz’s reach.

“What’s this?” he asked again, sounding almost genuinely confused. “Meant to throw me off-guard?”

Baz couldn’t form the words, could only turn away from Snow again and glare at the desk. 

“What sort of weird plot is this meant to help?” said Snow, his signature annoyed tone returning.

_ I have fallen in love with the biggest idiot ever to walk the halls of Watford,  _ thought Baz. 

“Well? Are you going to explain them or should I read the rest for more context?” challenged Snow, turning a page. 

And suddenly, Baz couldn’t take it any more. He couldn’t leave this last knot tangled, couldn’t leave this last problem unaddressed. Without turning around or really planning to say anything, he burst out.   

“You absolute fucking idiot, this is  _ real.  _ It doesn’t mean I’m planning to kill you, it’s what it looks like, it's a love confession! I’ve never hated you, not once. If anything I hate myself for even thinking this, for ever hoping perfect Simon fucking Snow could even care if I live or die.”

Baz let out a shaky breath, tears finally spilling onto his cheeks, slowly but surely. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around. He hadn’t meant to say that much.

After what felt like an eternity later, a gentle hand resting on his shoulder made Baz jump.

“Baz. Look at me,” said Snow's quiet voice, so close to Baz's ear he could feel the breath.

Baz couldn’t move, rooted to the spot. He’d pulled this mess out into the open, but the last thing he wanted to do was face Snow.

“Baz. Please.”

He had barely turned his head before Simon Snow had pulled himself up and pressed his lips gently to Baz’s. 

He could barely even kiss back, he was so shocked. Simon pulled away hardly a second later, so soon Baz wasn’t entirely sure if it had really happened.

“Snow, what… what was that?” he asked, forcing the aching hole in his chest not to get too excited.

“I’m not entirely sure?” Snow whispered, saying it like a question. He threaded his fingers through Baz’s hair. “It was a bit of an instinct.”

Baz had never done this before, but he improvised – he drew Snow towards him by the waist, feeling his warm skin and hot breath and, after a moment, soft, warm hands rested on the back of his neck, pulling him down again to meet Snow’s mouth. 

The fires that Baz could call to the palms of his hands were suddenly inside him, between them, the heat and intensity filling the space. Snow was breathing deeply, pressing himself closer to Baz, and all that seemed to be left of the room was them, together. Baz felt the pit in his stomach slowly disappear the tighter he held on to Snow, the longer they kissed.

Snow waited a long time to pull his lips away, and waited even longer to speak. 

“Baz, I think… I don’t hate you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Baz,” said Snow, rolling his eyes. 

“Clean your side of the room, then we’ll talk.”

Snow laughed shakily and let his hands slide down Baz’s arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps. 

“We have all night to clean the room, Baz.”

Baz laughed. “You make a convincing argument.”

He couldn’t think too much right now, still not entirely believing that Simon Snow was  really here, pressed against him. Even though they’d lived in the same space for years, it was the first time he ever really felt close to Snow. 

Baz carefully tangled a hand in Simon’s curls, pressing his lips to a freckle on his forehead. 

“I suppose this is the mess that most needed cleaning up, anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) Comments are my life source. My Tumblr is @thefourthschuyler if anyone wants to come freak out about these dorks with me (I'm nice I promise!)


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